“My Mother-in-Law Fed My Child Food from the Bin”: I Left and Gave My Husband an Ultimatum
When Oliver and I first met, we were both in our thirties. At that age, no one wastes time—and neither did we. We met, liked each other, dated for a few months, and then filed for marriage. We were both eager to start a family. I’d long dreamed of having a child, and Oliver, who’d never been married before, wanted to be a father just as much. We tied the knot quickly, without any fuss, and moved into my grandmother’s flat, which I’d inherited. We did it up, bought new furniture, and settled into our cosy little nest.
Before the wedding, I’d only met his mother, Margaret, a handful of times—once at a café and again at the ceremony. She seemed perfectly pleasant then: calm, polite, outwardly supportive of our relationship. She didn’t interfere, and I even thought I’d lucked out with my mother-in-law. How wrong I was.
We didn’t wait to have a child. I got pregnant almost straight away, and my pregnancy was, for the most part, blissful. Oliver doted on me—literally and figuratively. At three in the morning, he’d peel satsumas for me. He made avocado toast in the mornings, rubbed my belly, and whispered fairy tales to our unborn son. Margaret mostly kept her distance, except for the occasional care package—jams, apples—sent through Oliver.
At the time, I didn’t think much of it, but sometimes the jars were dusty, the jam crystallised, the apples oddly bruised. I brushed it off—old age, poor eyesight, maybe she’d been duped at the shop. But then our little Alfie was born, and everything fell apart.
Margaret suggested moving in temporarily to help with the baby while renting out her own flat—a bit of extra income. Oliver had hit a rough patch at work, and we’d just taken out a loan for a car, so it made sense. I agreed.
But Margaret didn’t just arrive—she moved in. With a van full of belongings. Except “belongings” isn’t the right word. It was junk: musty old rags, chipped mugs, broken toys, random boxes, stacks of newspapers. Her collection grew daily. I even noticed packaging in the bin from food we’d never bought.
Then one day, I saw her coming back with a grubby supermarket bag. I peeked inside—and froze. Expired food: mouldy rolls, yoghurts a week past their date, bananas so far gone they were liquid. She was bringing this into our home. Into the home where my newborn son lived!
And she meant for us to eat it. Me, who’d just given birth, and my baby! I lost it. I demanded Oliver talk to her. But he… defended her. Said she’d grown up poor, that her own mother had fed them scraps from neighbours, even from bins, just to survive.
“But we’re not at war!” I shouted. “We can afford food! We don’t need to eat rubbish! Do you realise how dangerous this is for Alfie?”
He stayed silent. Then, quietly: “Mum means well. She’s trying.”
Trying?! I’d had enough. I packed our things, took Alfie, and left for my parents’ in Bristol. It’s peaceful there. Clean. No one feeds us expired bin food.
I gave Oliver an ultimatum: either he tells his mother to clear out our flat—junk and all—or he can stay with her. But I won’t go back to live in a landfill.
Now, tell me honestly—did I go too far? Should I have handled it differently? Given her another chance? Or did I do right by protecting my child—and myself?
